


Life After You

by strawberry_morty



Series: Rick/Morty Shenanigans [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up, Young Rick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-11-22 17:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_morty/pseuds/strawberry_morty
Summary: Rick doesn't notice his absence. Not at first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... That REALLY long hiatus I took, real sorry about that, but on the bright side--because I procrastinated so much, I've already started the first chapters of two new fics. Hope you enjoy!!

_“Rick,” He whispers out, breathless. “I love you.”_

_As soon as he says the words, his entire frame stiffens. He looks at Rick with pure, naked fear in his eyes, as if Rick’s reaction will determine the end of the universe—and Rick has never felt more powerful than in that moment, with the world in his arms—_

_“Morty,” He hears himself whisper. “I love you. I love you too.”_

_Then he pulls him into a desperate, deep kiss. He speeds up his thrusts, grinding at the end of each in a way that makes Morty’s keen high and fragile beside his ear, and his hands claw desperately at Rick’s shoulders._

_Morty holds onto him urgently, like he’s running out of time, like Rick will disappear if he lets go, and a traitorous whisper in the back of his mind remembers this, and tells him to hold on too—because this wasn’t real, this wasn’t how it happened—_

_“I love you,” He murmurs again, caressing Morty’s sides in the way that makes him shiver, giving tenders kisses along his neck, repeating those three words again and again, every breath devoted to saying them—_

_Morty tries to kiss him, but he’s smiling too hard, his cheeks flushed red from pleasure and bashfulness, his eyes soft and glowing—when Rick says it again, Morty ducks his head, the shy smile widening—_

_He whispers it once more, then again, until the white pleasure blinds his mind and he can’t count anymore, can’t hear anything but Morty stuttering out the same words through hiccups and moans, his breath hot against Rick’s neck—_

_Morty slumps down against him afterwards, exhausted, and Rick brushes the damp, stray hairs behind his ears. The softness of Morty’s curls surprise him, and he realises it’s because he never did it enough, never touched Morty enough for it to become familiar._

_He holds him tight, and doesn’t let go._

_—_ Until he wakes up.

The ship is dark and quiet, only the low thrum of the life supports breaking the silence of space. Rick reaches over to the other side of the cot, and only feels white, empty sheets. He hadn’t expected anything more, but it still makes the dull throb in his chest—the one that’s always there now, scratching at his empty, empty ribcage—intensify into a deep ache that makes his eyes sting.

What he would give, to go back to that night.

Rubbing his eyes, Rick looks up at that empty abyss, at the distant, glowing star systems through the glass separating them. Sometimes, he finds the isolation comforting—rests easy with the knowledge that nothing matters.

In this infinite, sprawling universe, Rick is only a tiny speck, and no one’s out here but him. He could drift away into the oblivion found at the bottom of his flask and in the remnants of crystal lines, and no one would notice or care.

Tonight, the isolation only serves as a reminder that no one does anyway.

So he lies there, alone. Lets his toes dip into the murky waters of the past.

Just like the relief that floods his body when snorting a gram after going dry too long, the memories overtake him with both soothing ease and the knowledge that he’s only making it worse for himself. It hurts to think of him, but even worse is the thought of forgetting his smile.

He wonders if one of those far-away lights is earth. If one of them is Morty—small, insignificant little Morty on that insignificant planet—peering out his window with brown eyes, looking up at the stars as if subconsciously recognizing Rick was out there, looking back. He knows it’s just wishful thinking, but it eases the yearning in his chest ever so slightly.

He reaches a hand up, stretches his arm as if it could close that distance of a million light-years. Flops his arm back down when it doesn’t.

What would Morty being doing now? He’d be nineteen now. Would he be at college, like he’d always wanted—no, that wasn’t right. He’d never wanted to go to college, but he didn’t know what else to do. He’d followed down that path set for him with resigned silence, forcing a smile and faking excitement about applying to mediocre schools. He was probably miserable.

Rick scoffs. Of course, even subconsciously, he was still trying to make himself feel better—grasping at wild conclusions that Morty was hopelessly lost without him.

He tries to remember the awkward, sincere little shadow at his side, with heart eyes and a stutter on his tongue—but finds that he can’t. Instead, Rick thinks of tear-stained cheeks, glassy brown eyes, a dark silhouette standing in a doorway—

He focuses once more on those winking lights, grounding himself, finding stability in their sporadic pattern. Stops thinking.

Breathes.

~

The day after Morty left him: at the time, was insignificant.

He remembers waking up, seeing the missing coat on the rack, his lonely pair of shoes, the absence of Morty’s bag slumped against the wall—and scoffing, confident Morty would spend the day in a hissy fit until he cooled off enough to come back.

He drives to school, unbothered by the empty space sitting shotgun. He jokes with nameless friends in class, and flirts with any girl that walks by just because he knows it’ll piss Morty off. At lunch, he avoids the rooftop and sits in the cafeteria instead, the table crowded with people leaning close to him, clinging onto every word he says and laughing far too violently for it to be sincere.

(He used to find it flattering, the way people exaggerated their reactions in an attempt to suck up to him, so desperate to be in his good graces. Now, all he wants is to see that small, genuine twitch of Morty’s lips as he tries to pretend Rick’s jokes aren’t funny.)

Then the doors swing open, and behind a loud, chattering crowd, Rick sees Morty warily entering.

Their eyes lock, but just as quickly Morty whips his head away, resolutely making his way to the table by the trash can—the one that everyone else avoids because of the smell. The one he used to sit at before Rick brought him to the roof. Morty slips into the spot, seamlessly, as if he’d always sat there.

That image still stays in his mind. It had struck a chord in Rick, for some reason, seeing Morty sit alone, push around soggy pasta with his fork.

Perhaps—although he didn’t understand it at the time—he was unsettled by how easily things went back to normal. Not even twelve hours after the fight and… nothing. Morty went back to his solitary table, Rick to his own. No one ever knew they were dating, or that they broke up, or even knew each other in the first place.

As if the two years they were together had vanished like smoke. As if it had meant nothing—and it _was_ nothing. Rick had a reputation, and not one gained without cause. He’s had lots of other relationships, and he’d left them without a glace back. Morty was no different.

He tells himself that, and actually manages to believe it. Rick never needed Morty. It was the other way around.

In the days afterwards, the ease in which time carries on only proves his point. Everything is still the same—his dad is an asshole, Veronica has the hots for him, his classes are still mind-numbing in their toddler concepts.

The only difference is that he doesn’t see Morty anymore—which isn’t true anyway. He does. Rick sees him in the hallways, and it doesn’t matter that Morty keeps his eyes down because Rick doesn’t waste energy looking his way to check. In the cafeteria, the distance between their tables seems to widen into a chasm, but they wouldn’t have talked to each other anyway.

The hollow feeling in his chest—the one that urges him to bridge that gap, that aches to sees brown eyes blink in their doe-like fashion—it’s just as easy to ignore as the brown-haired shadow at the locker across the hall. It’ll go away. (It doesn’t.)

And so life goes on, and the only evidence of that absence in Rick’s life becomes the growing, festering thing inside him. Clawing, _gouging_ at his insides like a rabid animal desperately trying to escape.

Rick ignores it, goes to school and sits at the back of his classes, catering to the whims of pandering, incompetent idiots. The days drag on, never seeming to end—so Rick fills that newfound time in his room, tinkering.

At least, he tries to, but the ideas that once seemed to flow smoothly seem to have clogged into an upset clump.

On the rare days that his dad lounges around in front of the TV with empty beer bottles, Rick pulls on his coat, and spends the hours of dusk aimlessly wandering. On weekends, he calls up every contact in his phone and tells them to come over with six-packs and music.

Still, however, he finds himself staring at blueprints and brainstorms, inspiration nowhere to be found and far too much time on his hands, wondering where it came from.

It’s then that he realizes: he used to spend that time with Morty.

Another day. He sits in the cafeteria once again, surrounded by people who Rick wouldn’t give a fuck about if they got shot in the head, and is suddenly, with the same ground-breaking revelation that comes to him upon a scientific breakthrough, struck with the agonizing monotony of his life.

Day in, day out—it was all the same, and it was all horrendously insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe.

He gets up, ignoring the calls of his peers, puts one foot in front of the other over and over until he finds himself at the top of the stairwell, facing the door to the rooftop.

The door stares back at him, as is daring him to pass through, knowing that it will only deepen that rotting ache inside of him. Rick picks the lock anyway. Steps through, knowing no good will come of it.

It shuts with a metallic click behind him. Rick looks around the sparse, concrete area.

Morty’s improvised picnic blanket is still here, abandoned and soggy from last night’s rain. The familiar edge, so accustomed Rick was to be finding someone there with legs dangling off the roof, that it looks foreign by itself.

Morty isn’t there, looking up at the sky like his head was with the clouds. He always zoned out, looking at the clouds like some magic guru making a prophecy—when Rick told him that, he laughed and pretended to read Rick’s fortune in those distant white clumps.

_I see, in the future you will be a human named Rick, you will have two arms, and two eyes, and a boyfriend named Artichoke—I thought your name was Morty, he had said, jokingly._

_Morty smiled at him, a teasing glint in his eye. “Who says I’ll still be your boyfriend?”_

Before he leaves, he wrings the water out of the blanket and shoves it into his backpack. Still damp, the water seeps through it and soaks into his back, leaving him colder with every step he takes farther away, and that hollow ache between his lungs grows bigger, leaving him strangled for air.

It's only when he’s knees-deep in alcohol, a faceless girl on his lap, that Rick finally understands that feeling in his chest.

Rick misses him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm so pumped for this fic like I've got a vision. Let's just hope I can stay committed long enough to get it done XD

 “Hello Rick.”

He turns, grimaces, and turns back around. Continues on his way and pretends his strides aren’t wider and faster than before.

This is why he shouldn’t stay on planets for longer than a day. Why settle down and have a convenient base for research, when he could just waste his precious portal fluid and avoid all these creepy locals?

“Are you foraging again?”

“Yes,” Rick agrees, voice flat—just to get the guy to shut the hell up. Besides, _foraging_ sounds better than _shamelessly abusing this planet’s treasured resources_.

“Albinoc sap is well-renowned as a spiritual healer. This forest is plentiful with its trees,” he says. Rick walks faster—the weirdo trails behind him, faithfully matching his pace like some lost puppy. “Are you dying of a terminal illness?”

“No,” Rick says, swatting at the branches in his way—he hears the leaves snap back and slap the guy in his face, and the petty satisfaction is vaporized when Rick turns around and sees him soldier through them without a flinch, like the poisonous tips—that Rick spent _two days_ making an antivenom for—are nothing but pesky flies.

“Mud,” Rick hears behind him. “Mud.”

“What the hell are you— _shit_ —” Rick swears, tugging at his leg. The black mud pulls at his ankle like a needy child, swallows up his ankle as panic flashes through his veins.

He reaches for his portal gun—the failsafe for any situation gone south—but instead his arm gets grabbed, yanked so hard it feels it’s almost popped out of the socket.

“Mud,” Weirdo says once more, patting him on the back.

Shaking off flecks from his leg, Rick sighs and sends him a grudging nod as he turns around.

“This terrain is very dangerous to land-walkers.” And there he goes _again_ —“My mother died in a sinkhole such as this when I was young. I watched the elements take her soul. The earth swallowed her, then water flooded her lungs, and like fire, hungry insects crawled across her body and feasted—”

“Jesus _christ_ —” Rick stops, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath when Weirdo bumps into his back, having trailed too closely. Rick turns around and sets a hand on his shoulder. “First of all, you need help. Second— _I don’t give a shit_.”

Clapping him on the back, Rick walks away. Sucks in air through his teeth when the footsteps follow once again. “Can you not take a damn _hint_? Fuck off, pal.”

“I cannot,” he says. Stays still like stone and watches Rick with beady eyes.

“Why not,” Rick grinds out.

“I am indebted to you. I will pledge the remainder of my life in servitude to you.”

“Keep _following_ me, and that won’t be very long,” Rick growls. “Look—that was—I didn’t mean to save your life, okay? I just happened to be in the area. So, for the love of god—drop all this _life-debt_ bullshit, and stop—“ He gestures. “Whatever the hell you’re doing.”

“There’s an old tale that we tell children, to keep them from wandering the forest by themselves,” he carries on. Rick sighs, resigned, and continues carving a path through the thick foliage, vaguely wondering what the charge for murder is on this planet. The Galactic Federation is already on his ass because apparently, he’s flying an unregistered vehicle with no intergalactic documents to his name. He _built_ the fucking thing.

“Of the ghost of a young boy. He left his home and snuck away into the jungle, only to find himself lost. He searches for the end, but all he can find are footsteps of a past traveler. Hoping to find an escape, he follows the tracks, only to find himself circling the same path over and over in an endless cycle. He wanders that circle for so long, that soon the past and present begin to overlap.”

“Uh huh,” Rick says, absently—a sliver of him dares to hope the guy will hear the disinterest in his voice. He keeps talking, of course.

“He meets his past self, then his future self, then—the self that has become so confused, so misdirected, it has started walking through the cycle backwards. He meets all of them, and knows they are him, and he is them. He looks down at his feet, and cannot find the original tracks. He realises—he was the first traveler, and all along, he was following the lost, misguided soul that resided in himself. He continues to walk in the footsteps. He knows nothing more, only the forest floor which is always the same, although he is different.”

Weirdo stares at him expectantly. Rick rolls his eyes, applauds with heavy, slow claps. “Wow—just great stuff, really. Thing is—I’m not asking you to pay back that debt with story-time. So if that’s all you have, then consider yourself pardoned.”

“No.” He says.

Temper rising, Rick snaps, “Well, what’s the plan then? You’ll follow me around and—if someone tries to shoot me, you’d fucking _die_ to protect me?”

“Without hesitation,” he answers, sincere enough to show through the robotic tone of his voice.

Rick is thrown off enough that he can’t think of a witty remark to say in turn, and he continues, “We are a species that thrives due to our bonds. We imprint on those who will make lifelong companions. We believe that fate brings these individuals together, and together they must stay. The bonds formed are sacred.”

“Pal, I didn’t pull you out of that Hacator’s mouth because of fate.” It was because Rick needed that Hacator’s stomach acid, and he wasn’t eager to pick out freshly-chewed hamburger meat from his test tubes.

“I appreciate it all the same,” he says—and Rick considers socking in him the eye just to get a reaction out of him. The guy didn’t have a single angry bone in his body, and it’s making Rick feel like even more of an asshole.

 “What’s your name,” Rick offers, reluctantly.

“Birdperson.”

He feels a vein pop in his forehead. “That’s your _species_. I meant your name—what people _call you_.”

“Birdperson.”

“You are—” Rick sighs. Shuts his eyes tight and wishes he were religious so he could pray to a deity for some fucking patience. “That’s your name,” he confirms, skeptical.

Birdperson reaches out an arm—limb, wing, whatever the hell—and Rick slaps it away. “Hands off, buddy.”

“Your translator,” He answers, and Rick reaches one hand up to touch the chip behind his ear. “Birdperson names are sacred. They cannot be warped into a foreign tongue. There is no translation that can convey such significance without cheapening its meaning.”

“Okay, then—” Curiosity peaked, Rick thumbs the small switch along the metal. “It’s off. Say it now—”

“ _SQUARRWARR_ —"

“Motherf—” Rick slaps his hands over his ears, hastily switches the translator back on, just in time to hear him finish, voice once again low and melodic, “—erson.”

“Your name is Rick,” he carries on, as Rick swallows and tries to get the ringing out of his ears. “Does it have a greater meaning? Perhaps a mantra, or after a great warrior in your ancestry.”

“Nah,” Rick shakes his head. “It’s just—just Rick.”

“Rick. It must mean something refined and noble.” He remarks.

It’s only once Birdperson brings him back to his tree-house, and serves him a bowl of fucking _carpet lint_ , that Rick realises just how many jokes flew over his head.

~

_“Hey—um… Are y-y-you okay?”_

_Rick opens his eyes, wincing at the glaring light before tilting his head away. Closes them once more. He hears footsteps come closer, the sound of grass crunching under bare feet beside his head. “Shuddup,” he mumbles._

_“E-Excuse me?”_

_He groans, rolling away from that grating voice. “Shud’ up.”_

_A hand touches his shoulder, and Rick makes a boneless attempt at swatting it away, his arm lifting two inches before slumping back down._

_“Do—do you… Should I call someone?”_

_“Go away,” Rick slurs out. A blade of grass tickles his forehead and he scrunches his eyes up in response._

_“You… You’re—” The voice begins again, hesitantly. “Y-You’re in my backyard.”_

_Rick snaps his eyes open, the world sideways and spinning, and makes out something crowding around his face, blocking everything else from view. Something cold nudges at his nose, licks a wet stripe along his cheek—_

_He flinches and sits up, his head pounding in protest, and distantly hears the same person whisper, “Snuffles, leave him alone.”_

_In front of him, he sees a pair of feet shuffle and shift. Looking up, it’s quite anti-climactic to see a non-descript teenager, standing with his hands fiddling together._

_“If this is heaven, it sucks,” Rick tells him._

_He blinks. “Uh.”_

_Rolling his eyes, Rick pushes himself up, his head feeling four times too heavy for his body. He looks around the lawn, strewn with paper cups and questionable clothing items. “The hell?”_

_“You came to my sister’s party,” The kid says, a flicker of annoyance in his voice. It doesn’t seem to be directed at Rick, so he doesn’t bother to take offense. “It’s Saturday, 1 pm. You can leave through the gate and—I-I-I don’t know, all your friends already left. Y-Y-You’ll probably have to call a cab.”_

_“That fucker,” Rick mutters darkly. He pats his pocket and isn’t surprised to find his keys missing. “Shit.”_

_“Well,” Eyes wary, feet shuffling once more. “Do you want some water?”_

_“How ‘bout some drugs,” Rick suggests in a mumble, pressing the back of his hands to his eyelids._

_“Like, Tylenol? Sure—I-I-I’ll be right back.”_

_“That works too,” Rick replies sluggishly, keeping his eyes closed. It feels like he barely has ten seconds of peace before the footsteps return. Rick opens his eyes blearily and sees a hand holding out a glass of water to him, two pills in another._

_There’s an irritating ring in his ears, and Rick realises the kid is talking to him, rambling like it’s going out of style. “—Name’s Rick, right? I-I-I mean I just—I’ve just heard your friends call you Rick, I-I-I haven’t been stalking you or anything—you’re in the same math class as me, you know? I mean, the period before me, just—the same room. I-I-I, um, I’ve seen you around.”_

_Rick swallows the tablets dry, takes a swig from the water and hands it back. Giving a lazy salute, he turns around and makes his way to the gate._

_“I’m Morty!” He hears from behind him._

_“Whatever,” Rick mumbles, and then he takes the stumbling path home._

Rick snaps his eyes open. Reaches up and yanks out the vial from the helmet, rolls it around in his hands. He pulls out the tape and marker from his lab coat’s pocket and writes: _Meeting_. _August 14, 2015._ Then he sets it down in the growing pile of coloured vials.

Even the day they first met? Drunk him really was a pathetic bastard.

Maybe he should get into the habit of locking away the memory gun before going on a bender. He scoops the thin tubes into his arms, realising with annoyance that at this rate, he’ll have to make a completely separate storage for memory vials.

Or Rick could destroy them.

He looks down at the glasses in his arms. He could, couldn’t he? He could erase every thought of Morty from his mind, every bittersweet memory and every heartache. Put it into a vial and send it into space without a glance back.

He wouldn’t even know what he was missing.

Rick sets the pile back down on the floor, mind blank. Pulls out the memory gun from the inner pocket where it rests heavy like lead, and sets it against his temple.

Thinks.

Of late-night arguments and shouting matches. Cold anger and heavy silences. The sting of too-harsh words, of regrets, and _hurt_ —

Brown hair. Soft eyes. Warm skin. Rick shuts his eyes tight, and wishes for all of it to be taken away.

_—there’s something wrong with you, Rick. It’s like you don’t have the capacity for love._

His finger twitches on the trigger. He could do it—he could finally move on, forget and walk away. But—but—

His shy, quirky little smile. The way he stuttered and fumbled his way through every sentence. His lame jokes and stupid questions. And his _laugh_. The shy little chuckle he would make whenever Rick flirted with him, ducking his head with red cheeks even as he leaned closer.

The giddy, half-confused laughter that would bubble out of his throat when Rick went off on tangents about wild, scientific inventions, eyes spinning to follow Rick’s manic gestures— _Morty, don’t you understand, we’ll be rich Morty, Morty do you even know what I just said—_

The full-bodied fits of laughter he would get at Rick’s expense, gasping out apologies through giggles as Rick watched him with a reluctant, irritated smile on his lips— _Morty, you are the worst lab assistant I’ve ever had_ — _God_ , his laugh.

How could he ever think of forgetting his laugh?

Rick sighs, drops his hand and resignedly throws the memory gun onto the floor. Looks up at the ceiling as if the white plaster somehow held answers.

“Damnit,” Rick whispers. The ache in his chest grows rabid, scratches along raw flesh. “God damnit.”

Sighing, he bends to scoop up the glass vials, shoving open the cabinet with an awkward twist of his shoulder. Dumps them unceremoniously into the growing heap.

It’s almost a tradition now, to wake up and mix a hangover cure, before settling down to screen through what he doesn’t know he’s lost, throwing verbal abuse at the wall as if it would allow yesterday’s self to hear the snide comments.

There’s at least fifty, if not more. Whenever he tries to remove a memory in an intoxicated haze, he usually just ends up remembering them in the morning to see what he’s missing. It kind of defeats the point of erasing them in the first place—but to be fair, most of them are harmless, and it’s embarrassingly pathetic that he couldn’t handle having them in his nutcase.

He’s never tried to remove a memory that wasn’t about Morty, and remembering them drains him even more. Self-inflicted torture, caused by that curious itch he gets when he sees the new vials scattered across the floor, needing to know what he’s missed, what he’s forgotten.

Of his collection, there are three tubes that Rick hasn’t watched.

One red.

One blue.

One gold.

All of them—the red in desperate, wild scrawls, the blue in bold, block letters, and the gold in weak, shaky handwriting—have the same label.

_Don’t._

He’s seen them before. He’s just always erased them immediately after—he knows, because the three tubes are tied together with an elastic, bundled up with a sticky note that reads: _Before you go back to him_.

And he’s always thought of a million reasons to go back to Morty, but only a hundred for why he should stay away. So he knows that it’s been these memories stopping him, giving him the restraint he lacks.

Eventually, the curiosity will be too great to resist once more. He’ll slide those memories back into his brain, and see what made him break—what inspired him through misery and regret to build a memory gun of all things.

Not today, however.

He closes the cabinet. Settles back down at his desk, and throws himself deep into the next, mindless project.

~

“Hey, gimme’ another piece.”

“No.”

“I’m having another piece,” Rick leans over, pops another piece of cake into his mouth. He tries to send a charming smile at Birdperson, but he’s pretty sure it looks more smug.

“I laboured many days to make this fruitcake.”

“You bought it at the supermarket, asshole.”

“It was expensive.”

“It was _on_ _clearance_.”

He takes another freshly-cut square, snatching it out of Birdperson’s hand-wing—Rick still needs to ask about its anatomy—before the knife finishes cutting through. Rick’s pretty sure it’s laced, because the fruitcake he remembers from Earth tasted like shit. He doesn’t know what the bakeries here use, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was illegal.

At first, he’d found Birdperson’s house—strange, is the best word to describe it. It’s homey, a hollowed trunk with furniture made of wood and weaved grass. There’s a nest tucked in the corner, hanging like a giant swing made of twine. A small kitchen with technology that Rick can only barely manage to call _technology_ , and open windows high above, carved straight through the bark of the tree and letting breeze and sunlight drift through.

He still finds it hard to form the connection between the space and Birdperson. He’d never thought the guy would have a place so—domestic. He gives off more of a _broke college student_ vibe. Old enough to live apart from his family, too young to have all his shit together. And there’s something else that bothers him about it—it’s…

It's big. Too big for one person.

Rick hasn’t asked.

“How is your research going?”

Rick pauses. Shrugs, and around a mouthful, says, “Fine.”

Birdperson gazes at him, scrutinizing. Actually, that’s how he looks all the time, so it’s probably his normal face. It’s still unnerving. “You have been here for two months.”

“So?” Rick asks, forcing a grin. “Getting tired of me?”

“Never,” Birdperson responds, looking _so_ —

“Stop that,” Rick groans, leaning to the other side of the couch as if it would help. The wooden framing creaks under his weight, reminding him it wasn’t built for organisms with solid bones. It’ll probably be fine.

“Stop what.”

“Y-You always—get all—” Rick waves his hand around. He has no idea what the gesture it supposed to convey, but Birdperson somehow catches on.

“You are not used to sincerity,” he observes.

“It’s not—sincerity is just saying what you mean. By that definition, I’m the most sincere fuck around.” Rick cringes, hearing the defensive tone in his own voice.

Something about Birdperson always makes him feel transparent. Like the façade he’s painted on over the years, layer by layer, turns transparent with one glance of those beady eyes. He remembers now, why he’d been so off-put in the first days of their tentative friendship.

“Then you are not used to people caring,” Birdperson clarifies. “About you.”

Rick doesn’t tense. Birdperson hit the nail on the head, but he doesn’t freeze, his eyes don’t dart away and his posture stays casual as it always is. Even then, Birdperson’s eyes seem to train on the invisible tells with ease.

Shrugging, Rick says in a careless tone, “Not many people do.”

“I do.”

“I know,” Rick sighs. “’Cause you won’t fucking shut up about it. I’m not going to break if you stop _showering_ me in affections.”

“I enjoy your company.”

“Yup.”

“I consider you my friend.”

“I _know_.”

He leans back, looks up at the high cavern of carved wood. Listens to the sound of distant wind and idle, rustling tree branches. Distantly, he hears the sound of bird calls, and wonders if his translator doesn’t have a far enough range or if it’s just normal birds. He’d found it strange at first, how Birdpeople had regular birds on their planet, but he’s figures it’s like having monkeys on earth.

“You said you would leave after one week.”

Birdperson says it mildly, but Rick’s confident if that wasn’t his normal tone then he’d sound smug as shit.

He stretches. “Well fuck—I guess there’s more here than expected. Besides, I only said that to get rid of the stalker tailing me. You remember that guy? Oh yeah, it was you.”

“I was only fulfilling my duty.”

“God, you were annoying. I wanted to shoot you.”

“As were you. You made me wish to be shot.”

“Fuck you Birdperson.”

“You are pronouncing it wrong.”

“ _How can_ _I_ —Fuck you. Shut up.” He chuckles. Birdperson does too, in his weird, expressionless way—something about the light in his eyes, a contentedness in the way he sits that would still look stiff to a foreign eye.

Rick wonders what it means, that he can read Birdperson’s flat expression. That he knows what Birdperson is intending to say past the monotone of his voice, finding personality instead in the ruffle of feathers and the angle of his wings. It’s a certain type of understanding that doesn’t need words—and it’s mutual too. Because Rick never needs to clarify the good humour behind his insults, and Birdperson never takes offense to petty lashes that have made others swerve around him like poison.

It's… nice.

He’s not lonely. He has science, and that’s all he really needs. But there’s a warm feeling in his chest every time he steps through a portal for familiar coordinates, entering the wooden hollow and letting the welcome soak into his bones. Rick is grateful to Birdperson for giving him that feeling.

In this domestic little hovel, Rick can hang up his coat on carved alien wood, settle down on furniture not built for his species, and pretend that nothing else is there. A safe, cozy nest that washes away the venomous thoughts in his head that weigh down on his mind like a boulder.

That dark, empty void inside him will be lulled to sleep by the singing of birds, and as it snoozes in the golden shade of foranne trees, Rick can joke, and laugh—and convince himself for a single moment that he matters.

~

He needs a bigger ship.

Rick realises this as he struggles into leather pants and somehow manages to knock every limb at the worse possible angle. The stars are bright but seem to illuminate nothing, winking brightly at him from half way across the universe while he struggles to see one foot in front of him. His cot doesn’t even fit properly—Rick chopped a third of it off so he could squish it in, and now half his limbs fall off the bed when he lies down.

“Ah—Shit!” Rick yanks his foot back, tilting precariously and he finds his footing between tools and liquor bottles scattered across the cramped floor, stumbling his way to the driver’s seat.

Screw that. He needs a fucking house.

Since he left earth, Rick has lived out of his ship and the neat little fold-up lab he keeps in a briefcase. It worked at first—the lab, once unshrunk, was just big enough for everything he needed.

But Rick’s barely made a dent in his explorations of the multiverse, and he’s already picked up too much random shit. He still has that fucking jar of pebbles from I-339—Don’t get scammed by locals. Lesson learned—but even without all the questionable souvenirs, he was desperately searching for space to put new specimens, new resources, new inventions.

Not to mention—he’s pretty sure the case is leaking dangerous amounts of radiation because of that Glemflark he captured. He has a killer headache, and he can’t tell if it’s the remnant of a hangover or a symptom of on-set radiation poisoning. He’s been feeding the nuisance his dwindling store of snacks to keep it from getting too cranky—which in turn, is making _him_ cranky.

He needs a base of operations, preferably with one-foot thick walls made from Quadriem-treated lead. He currently has two kilograms of the stuff—a volume of about a cubic centimeter. Meaning, he’ll probably turn into the hulk before getting enough to build anything.

The comm starts chirping, and Rick reaches his free hand over and slams down on the blinking button. A crackling voice coming through the static. “ _Rick—you—waiting, you as_ s—”

“One second,” Rick calls back as he yanks the pant leg through his ankle, cringing at the harsh popping of the speaker. Fixing up a proper communications channel was one of the many tasks on his to-do list.

He twists upright in his seat, slaps down buttons and flicks familiar switches before grabbing the steering wheel in both hands. The engine rumbles, life filling the ship in the awaking lights and steady hum running through the entire frame.

He brings the ship careening down to the planet’s surface, breeching the atmosphere then the pink cloud layer. Breaking through, he tilts the ship downwards and scans the orange sands—he spots another ship, small in the distance and snorts, seeing the smoke slowly rise in a black cloud.

He docks the ship beside wreckage, hovering a foot above the dry sands. The ship’s globe retracts with a hiss, the compressed oxygen expanding to form an atmosphere bubble.

“Let me guess, an asteroid crashed into you. Or maybe a pack of rabid Splexogs trashed your ship. Definitely wasn’t your crappy piloting.”

“Shut your squanch."

“Still don’t know what that means,” Rick says, watching a pawed hand come into view. Squanchy climbs over the edge of the ship, plops down into the passenger seat. “Is it a noun? An adjective?”

“I don’t know,” He snorts. “You—it’s _squanch_. Context, yeah?”

“Sure,” Rick chuckles, flipping switches and buttons, then he pauses, looking at the smoking wreck with consideration. “Anything salvageable?”

“Buy your own shit, cheapskate,” Squanchy says, more teasing than offensive. He kicks back the recliner and settles back with a contended, exaggerated sigh. “Nah. It was a pretty mediocre ride.”

“I don’t think you should be complaining, considering, y-y-you know, you stole it.”

“We’re _late_.”

 “Like you give a shit,” He chuckles as he wraps his fingers around the steering wheel. The glass dome closes once more, and the ship swerves out of the sands and towards the darkness of space.

Briefly, Rick wonders how he got a talking, cat-resembling… alien thing as a hang-along, but realises stranger things have happened.

Squanchy and he have and easy, simple relationship. They party, and play wingman for each other, and there’s never been a moment of strained company between them, for this reason: never has their friendship strayed into the realms of personal.

They talk about music, travelling, people who piss them off, but Rick doesn’t know why or how Squanchy started to live off the space-equivalent of hitch-hiking. He’s never asked, just knows that Squanchy doesn’t have a home—and he’s fine with it. Catching a ride wherever he can until he reaches the next party, only to repeat it the day after.

“Woah, Rick, who the squanch is this?”

Rick looks over. Freezes.

Squanchy is holding _the photo_. The one he had pointedly hidden away, only pulling it out of that compartment when’s he’s drunk enough to hold it without the desire to rip it into shreds.

“Give me that,” He snaps, snatching it out of Squanchy’s grasp.

Flinching, Squanchy raises his paws placatingly. “Geez, man. Sorry,”

“Then don’t fuck around with my stuff,” Rick growls, tucking it into one of the inner pockets of his lab coat. It rests above his heart, burns through the fabric and into his skin like acid.

He remembers returning to his dusty old apartment in the dead of night, digging through his junk drawer, hands numb and fumbling from too much alcohol, and finding that picture, shoved unceremoniously into the mess of stray pens and unwanted notes. Holding it in his trembling hands like a newly-hatched bird, wondering how he could have allowed it to happen—allowed that cherished gift to crease and crumple, until all he had left was a photo.

“Are…” Squanchy begins, voice wary as if he were approaching a sleeping beast. “Are they… You know—”

“It’s no one,” Rick says, rigid finality in his tone. Even as he resolutely stares ahead at the twinkling lights of space, the photo is imprinted on his vision, every detail crystal clear as if he were holding it right in front of him.

It's not just Morty. He’s cuddled up against an annoyed Rick, his shoulder tilted down as if waiting for Rick’s head to nestle into the crook of his neck, beaming at the camera while Rick looks off to the side. It was at the ritzy-ditzy hipster café that sold over-priced hot chocolate, and Morty would always order one then complain five minutes later about how he had no more money.

He remembers when Morty asked to take that photo, remembers sighing and calling Morty every word in the dictionary for clingy, giving a firm _no_ to any following photos— _and god, why didn’t he say yes, he should have said yes a hundred times over—_

Eyeing him cautiously, Squanchy says, “You… You can always talk to me, you know? I know we never really, get serious, but we’re _amigos_ , yeah?”

“ _We’re not_ ,” Rick snarls, ignoring the fact that he taught Squanchy that word, that Squanchy is the first person who’s ever offered to listen, other than—“We drink, and get high, but we are _not_ friends. Don’t act like we are.”

 _You’ll like this picture someday!_ is scrawled onto the back in messy pen, and sometimes, when Rick hates himself more than usual, he’ll think of Morty going to one of those crappy kiosks to print out that photo, how he must have waited in line with old grandmas and a goofy smile, tucking it inside the envelope with a stupid, corny birthday card that he thought would make Rick laugh—

—and how he had gone to a shitty party with his shitty friends while Morty waited at his apartment for him with a cupcake. He doesn’t know how long Morty stayed, but when he came home at dawn, his head pounding and nausea turning in his stomach, the lonely envelope was waiting on the table for him.

He hadn’t spared it a glance—lied through his teeth when Morty asked if it fit his wallet properly, instead of admitting he shoved it away somewhere and forgot where he put it.

“Well…” Squanchy begins, still _pushing_ —and Rick can barely contain the urge to snap, _what do you fucking know_ —“I’m still here if you wanna talk.”

_“—don’t see why we can’t hang out tomorrow. We see each other all the time, Morty.”_

_“Because today is—i-is my…Y-You remembered, right? It’s my birthday.”_

Rick takes a breath, clenches his hands around the steering wheel. “It’s no one.”

And—he reminds himself once more—it _is_ no one. Morty _is_ no one. He’s not wasting away his life, pining after his ex.

It’s simply that—He’s come to understand the bitter truth of reality. That in this infinite universe, nothing is truly significant. Nothing he could achieve hasn’t already been done by a million other people. Nothing in this world could give fulfillment, or purpose—

Morty was part of a brighter, stupidly naïve time in his life. When he thought he could conquer the world and leave a legacy in his wake. It’s simple psychology that he would cling to memories of Morty because of the association his brain unconsciously makes with happier times. In an unbiased perspective, Morty really isn’t that special.

It wasn’t love. Just science.

He forces on a smirk, turns to Squanchy, who watches him skittishly. “What were those coordinates?”

Morty didn’t matter. The foolish, sentimental half of his brain just needs more time to realise it.


	3. Chapter 3

“Excuse me?” Rick frowns down at him.

“You can’t wear that in here. Take it off, or leave.”

Rick looks down at himself, then back at the gremlin. “It’s my lab coat.”

“It’s _white_ ,” the thing spits out. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police on you.”

At first, Minaux-5 had been entertaining. Little two-foot tall creatures that hobbled around and looked more like they belonged in a fairy-tale, and their small cities that were dense with comically bite-sized houses.

The novelty quickly wore off, however, when one started spitting abuse at him through the tiny window of his vehicle, in a voice that reminded Rick of a particularly constipated squirrel. He’d ignored the pathetic little thing, assuming every planet had their assholes—hell, he was proof of it—but soon discovered that _everyone_ hated him.

He couldn’t walk five feet out in sunlight without getting a side-eyed glare or ill-disguised sneer. Tiny parents would protectively hold the shoulders of their tinier children, as if he were a rabid dog that would dart forward and snap at their heels.

And since he’d made it to space, he’d cut corners maybe, but overall he’s tried to stay on everyone’s good side, constantly scrambling for every planet’s unique rule book on etiquette—but his lab coat? That was drawing the line.

Rick raises his eyebrows, straightens up. “I’m a paying customer. You’re seriously gonna kick me out for wearing white?”

“I can and I _will._ You might not be familiar with our customs, but here, white is a forbidden colour. We don’t eat white food, or use white paint—let alone _wear_ it.”

“Fine, whatever,” Rick holds up the prehastilitator gears. “I’ll just buy this and go, then.”

The gremlin glares at him, waddles over behind the counter. Rick leans down to place it on the glass, the upset floor boards creaking beneath him. When he stands back up, the ceiling brushes against the top of his head warningly, and so he keeps his shoulders hunched.

“800 creds.”

Rick freezes, his wrist an inch away from the glowing pay shield. The metal chip embedded under his skin blinks patiently. “ _800?_ The tag said 400.”

“An extra fee for my charity.” The gremlin snorts.

Rick slams the gears back down. “Then no deal.”

“Suit yourself. You think anyone around here’s gonna serve you?”

Rick glares at him. “For—for wearing some fucking white? That’s fucking stupid.”

“ _Planetary mindset,_ you dumbass tourist. That’s how it _works_ around here.” His eyes run over Rick’s face with distaste. “And roll around some mud after you leave. Your milky-ass skin colour is nauseating.”

“Holy shit,” Rick mutters, pulling away. Did he just get exposed to alien racism?

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!” He hears the little shit snark as he leaves.

Crouching slightly to fit through the tiny, flimsy thing, Rick holds back the biting comment of _I don’t think it could if it tried._ He almost tips over a vase as he squeezes out, and regrets trying to avoid it in the first place. It was an ugly-ass vase. He would’ve been doing the guy a favour.

He walks down the cramped, cobblestone path to where his ship is parked, hands in his pockets and eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the—what he now understands to be _scandalized_ expressions on the locals he pass. Briefly, he wonders how they’d react if he were to swing his leg back and punt one of them like a football, watching it disappear into the sky with the satisfying twinkle of a shooting star.

It's been three days since he’d resolved to start fixing up a proper living-space, and he can list off the things he’s accomplished with one finger. The single objective which is now in hindsight, a deeply regretful one: _Reach Minaux-5._

What made Minaux-5 special is how it was created—it was originally a garbage dump for the entire universe, pile upon pile of trash from littering spaceships and wrecks pulled together until it got big enough to form a planet. Give or take a few hundred millennia, and lifeforms developed into a civilization.

The culmination of a billion years’ scraps and metals—meaning now, it housed forgotten technology and rare materials that haven’t seen the light of day for centuries, only recently unearthed as the Minaux burrow to planet’s core. They sell their finds for the standard Galactic currency of credits—which was good for everyone else, and _horrible_ for Rick.

There’s starving artists, and starving musicians, and Rick is currently living the life of what could be called a _starving scientist._

His ship, his base, even his portal gun—there’s a lot of room for improvement simply because he lacks resources. When he built them, he had to make do with whatever he could salvage on earth or in his travels, but it means he had to lower most of his goals—and it _pissed him off_ , knowing he could do infinitely better if he just had enough resources.

He thought that when he finally made it to space, he would have a plethora of new opportunities—which is why he was sorely disappointed that aliens were tight-asses just like humans. No, he doesn’t have a Galactic ID. Nor does he have registered eye-scan log, or a species card, and he certainly doesn’t want to sign up for a rewards card with the z-mail address he doesn’t have.

He's gotten by so far by the space-equivalent of dumpster diving, and a few lucky handouts from idiots who didn’t know how valuable that hunk of scrap metal they have is—but it’s not sustainable.

He’s done the best he can with one arm tied behind his back, and now he needs specific items—expensive, precious, _very hard to find_ items—to hope for any sort of long-term solution. Duct tape, although handy, won’t save his atmo-suit for long.

“Hey girl,” He murmurs, patting the hood of his ship. It responds with two blinks of dim yellow light—except for the left headlight, he still needs to fix it up—and the glass hood slides open for him.

“Hello Rick,” It chimes back at him.

As he settles down into the front seat, he searches his mind for the nearest, white-friendly planet. Of course, he never thought he’d need to make a list fitting that requirement, so it ends up naming either every planet or none at all. “Ship, set course for Aita-1.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that. Aita-1 requires 8.4 light years of fuel to reach. My diagnostics concludes I’m not fit for a travel of this distance.”

“Y-You—” Rick pauses, traces his mental path through the stars a second time. “That’s the _closest_ inhabited planet from here. What’s wrong with you?”

“My fuel tank is filled with xyntrol, which is incompatible with me. Long-term usage has caused hazardous build-up inside the tank, moderate damage to the engine pumps, and an increased risk of fire. Repairs and proper cleaning are needed before any travels exceeding 100 kilometers. There are plouert spores circulating in my air systems and cystic corrosion along—”

“Jesus, enough—” Rick interrupts, rubbing at his eyes. “I get it. We’re in deep shit, I-I’ll—I’ll figure something out.”

It had been building up, so he wasn’t surprised at least. Surprisingly, he’d overestimated his intelligence compared to the rest of the universe, and invented a never-before seen fuel.

It stroked his ego, but it also meant concentrated dark matter didn’t have a pump at the gas station. He’d only made enough to get to space, assuming he’d find somewhere to buy it after leaving earth’s primitive technologies. Even after he’d modified the engine for a crappy substitute, getting a tank of xyntrol was still a pain in the ass.

Xyntrol as a substitute, plouert spores from the first time he waltzed into Landron without proper gas filtration, the corrosion from getting spat on by a quinta bug during a hasty escape from wherever.

The ship’s nagging hasn’t stopped since he first touched the steering wheel with grease-stained hands. It’s like having a senile grandma sitting shotgun. He frowns guiltily the moment he thinks it, patting the ship again. “Sorry girl. I’ll fix you up, promise.”

He pulls out his portal gun with a sigh and starts calculating. He’s definitely not going to be getting any help from around here, so that leaves this as his last resort.

He cringes as he looks down at the weak light flickering in its dome. The travelling was still quite finicky, so it was hard to gauge how long he could stretch the fuel. A single trip there and back would already be testing fate. His mind is already running, calculating the most efficient travel to get everything he needs just long enough for his ship to work until they reach somewhere else.

Concentrated dark matter, hull repair, life support upgrades and god knows what else. He’ll have to plan smart to get it all before his portal fluid dries up.

He ends up going to Birdperson’s house. Which is stupid, but at the moment he’d rather bitch about his problems than work to solve them.

“Birdperson, you won’t _believe_ what just—”

He stops. Squanchy stares back at him, lying in true feline style along the arm of Birdperson’s couch.

Birdperson appears in the kitchen doorway. “Hello Rick.”

Glancing between them, he raises his eyebrows and asks, “Since when were you guys friends?”

“We weren’t,” Squanchy snorts. “You portaled me in to introduce us and then forgot to take me home. Thanks for leaving me stranded, asshole.”

“We have an interport. You could have returned to your planet at any time.”

“Yeah, after a squanchin’ five year hike.”

“It is only an hour by flight.”

“I can’t fly!”

Rick grins, the annoyance already gone. “Aw. You guys are real cute.”

Squanchy sits up and points an accusing finger at him. “You shut your mouth. You left me in the worst place in the universe. There’s no z-net, or hot water, and your pal here doesn’t have anything more advanced than a kettle!”

“Kettles make hot water.”

“Squanchin’ _shut up_.”

Flopping down on the couch beside Squanchy, Rick lets out a relaxed sigh as he sinks into the cushions. Beside him, Squanchy holds out a bowl of chips, and Rick grabs a handful with a thankful grunt.

Birddperson comes to join them, settling stiffly in the armchair. “What troubles you, Rick?”

“Life is fucking annoying,” He manages around a mouthful of crumbs. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Maybe you should be more positive,” Squanchy advises lightly, before bursting into cackles as if he’d just said the funniest thing.

“I’m a fucking field of sunshine and daisies,” Rick counters lazily, his eyes fixed up at the cavernous height of the ceiling, the spiraling wood patterns tattooed along carved walls.

“You are very pessimistic,” Birdperson says. Squanchy fervently nods in agreement. “You also have difficulty forming close relationships.”

Looking between their earnest expressions, Rick huffs. “No, I don’t.”

“Just take the insult, you squanch. I swear you’re a sociopath.” Squanchy pokes him in the cheek, snorting when Rick turns his head away with a grunt. “Do you have any actual friends other than us?”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but those ladies don’t come to the party for your furry ass.”

“ _Friends_ , Rick,” Squanchy says with exasperation. “Not your orgy pals.”

“My ship, then,” Rick answers immediately, before frowning as he sees Birdperson and Squanchy share a long, knowing glance. “What the hell is wrong with that? I programmed it myself. It can hold more intelligent conversations than both of you put together.”

“Ships don’t have emotion, Rick,” Squanchy says, showing unusual concern in his voice. Rick needs to tell him to do that less. “Robots don’t have a heart, just calculated actions.”

Rick bites his tongue so he doesn’t explain that’s why he likes robots. They were both infallible and predictable. It made for easy conversation—easy companionship overall.

“Well that _robot_ has one foot in the grave. My engine’s gone to shit, I’ve only got 2000 creds in my pocket, and even worse—” He yanks his portal gun out of its pocket, waves it around in the air. “My magic mojo’s about to run dry. So it’d be great if you guys had a solution to that.”

“Squanch, Rick, maybe we could—” Squanchy frowns at him sympathetically, but doesn’t seem to have any ideas to help. Rick doesn’t either—something that’s become painfully common since he left earth—so he doesn’t hold it against him.

“The Citadel,” Birdperson states. They both look over at him.

Blinking, Rick asks, “What?”

“The Citadel of Ricks. A place of gathering for Ricks across the multiverse,” Birdperson elaborates in his usual monotone. “You will likely find all the equipment you need with a single portal jump.”

Sitting up, Rick searches his face for any trace of lie. “You’re shitting me.  Why haven’t I—how the fuck do _you_ know about this?”

“Many Ricks have come to me in the past, mistaking me for their own dimension’s Birdperson. They were heavily intoxicated, and often ignored my claims that I did not know them.”

Squanchy chuckles beside him. “Yeah, that sounds like you, Rick.”

Ignoring him, Rick sits up and squints at Birdperson. “You fucker,” He realises.

He thinks back to the first days of their friendship, to Birdperson’s acute perception to his moods, his unique talent of saying just the right thing to make Rick stop in his tracks—

For a moment, he wonders how long Birdperson had waited for him.

“You _knew_ who I was all along—when we first met. You _knew_ me.”

“You were far more charming than your other selves,” Birdperson offers.

“You’re fucking lying,” Rick states.

There was no way—He’d never encountered another version of himself, as much as he expected to when he first began his travels. He supposed the multiverse was a big place, even for an infinite amount of Ricks running amuck—so to have an entire civilization of them?

Birdperson holds out a wing. “I can show you.”

“Hell no,” Rick snorts, pulling his portal gun out. “Just give me the—You fucker.”

Squanchy shrugs at him as he hands the gun over to Birdperson.

“You have no idea how to use that—”

A crisp green line shoots out, and the portal bubbles into existence against the wooden trunk. It warbles patiently.

He pats Squanchy on the back. “Off you go, tiger.”

“I’m not your squanchin’ meat shield!”

“You—y-you were the one complaining about getting left behind. Now you can be the first one through—”

“And the first one to _die_ —”

“I’ll always remember your sacrifice buddy.”

“I did not implant the coordinates wrongly.”

Rick gets up, reaching over to snatch his portal gun again as he approaches the glowing gate.

Looking back at Birdperson, he raises an eyebrow. “Promise me this isn’t a one-way trip to the blender dimension.”

Birdperson gives him a reassuring look. Well, he supposes that’s what his friend intends, but it appears flat as usual. Squanchy sends him a cheery wave, his other hand buried in the chip bowl.

Rick sighs, squares his shoulders, and steps through the portal.

“About fucking time,” Rick says. Not him. This Rick is—he’s _old_. Frail, thin. Wearing a bright blue sweater and khaki pants, a lanyard around his neck decorated with figurines and trinkets. And beside him—

_No._

“Aw, come on, Rick. I, I don’t wanna get in trouble again with customer service—”

“They can suck my balls.”

“ _Rick._ ”

“What— _o_ _urgh,_ whatever, let’s just get this over with. Welcome to the Citadel of Ricks, I’m your Tour-Guide Rick for the day. Just call me Tour-guide. This is my—hey, _hey_ , what the hell are you staring for _—_ ”

“Nothing,” Rick dismisses, eyes snapping away from, from—him. It doesn’t work. Everywhere he looks, crossing streets, lining up for food carts—always in pairs, blue and yellow.

It’s not surprising. Unexpected, yes, but Rick isn’t an idiot. Of course, of all the continuities connecting Ricks to a central identity, the one thing that could make him— _them_ happy, of course it would be—

The Rick looks at him for a long calculating second, before turning to—Rick looks up at the artificial sky so he doesn’t have to think about it. "Looks like our guy doesn’t have a Morty yet. Guess you can take a coffee break.”

“I can stay, I really don’t—”

“Morty, get the fuck out of here.”

Rick doesn’t look over, but an achingly familiar, exasperated scoff rings in his ears. He drowns it out by focusing on the whir and hum of engines as hovercars zoom by on the nearby street.

“What happened to him?”

He looks over at his look-alike, ignores the knowing light in his eyes in favour of the wrinkles lining his face.

“Who?” Rick feigns, and Tour-Guide sighs, looking down at his tablet and beginning to swipe along the screen. Rick can’t see what it says, but by the bored expression on the Rick’s face, it’s probably not that interesting.

“You know who,” He says absently. “Don’t forget I’m _you_. I know when shit’s coming out of my mouth.”

The Rick looks up from his screen, the cheerful lanyard jingling with the movement. When his eyes finally take in Rick’s appearance, his face scrunches up as if smelling something unpleasant. “God, you’re a fucking babyface.”

“And you’re an old motherfucker,” Rick shoots back, still taking in the pallid skin, the gauntness rendering cheekbones deeper than they already were. On his overly-cheery shirt, a laminated name-tag reads _Tour-Guide Rick, D-467._

Tour-Guide snorts, looking back down at his tablet. Below the echoing of city life along the smooth concrete, Rick hears him mutter something along the lines of “Should’ve taken the graveyard shift, damnit.”

In his peripheral vision, Rick catches a yellow shirt, a flash of brown hair. Then another, and another. Trailing after their Ricks like puppies, chattering away with that dopey look of contentment he always had, listening with his wide eyes. Suddenly, there’s a glaring emptiness at his side that stamps across his brain, impossible to ignore.

He tries to overlook it, but now he sees how much they stick out—it’s not just his unique age or Tour-Guide’s bright shirt, it’s the break in pattern among the crowd. Everyone is in pairs, yellow and blue, yellow and blue—

_Don’t think about it._

“Look here.”

Rick focuses back on him just in time to hear the shutter sound. The Rick keeps his tablet camera aimed at him for a long second before shrugging and bringing it back down.

“Ooh,” He comments, studying the screen. “Dimension L-938. Your reality is one where all major characters have been aged down. Awfully convenient to the plot, but I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“Nice to know. I’ll be going now.”

He starts to turn away when something latches onto his wrist, metallic and hard. He frowns looking down at the silver cuff as it blinks at him with green light.

“Nuh uh. You think any Rick ever wanted me to give them a tour? Hell, _I_ don’t want to give them a fucking tour. But we’re all in this together pal. Let’s go.”

Tour-guide starts walking along the smooth, marble path, and suddenly Rick’s feet are following after him, his muscles compelled without thought. He glares down at the metal cuff as he tags behind the Rick. A fucking neuro-hacker, great.

“The Citadel is located in the centre of the multiverse’s finite curve, a man-made dimension 0. It was created in Earth-year 1989, and continues to follow the human system of time. Founded by—”

Rick tries to tune out the monotone lesson, only to find himself jolted back into focus as if his brain were zapped. The cuff blinks red warningly at him and he rolls his eyes. If this tour is longer than ten minutes, he might shoot himself. By the dead look in Tour-Guide’s eyes as he recites his lines, Rick might not be the only one.

His eye catches something and he stops in his tracks, searching through the window of the shabby corner store with the gaudy sign announcing, _Rick Stop_. It vaguely resembles a gas station mixed with the futuristic charm of the rest of the Citadel.

“What’s that?” Rick demands, interrupting Tour-guide’s monotone history lesson.

“What’s—oh, that’s one of the Rick Stops. Has all the needs for adventures. Portal fluid, star maps and shit. There’s 16070 of them around the Citadel, and the first one was built by Sheik Rick in—hey, where are you—”

Rick ignores him and begins to march over, barely managing to move five feet before his legs lock stubbornly and the cuff scolds him with a beeping red. He narrows his eyes at it and grabs Tour-guide by the shoulder, pulling him along as he stalks up to the sale display, eyes darting over the signs with a mix of elation and horror.

_Portal fluid, 300 creds/litre. Concentrated dark matter, 40 creds/litre. Red serum, 2 creds per bottle._

“Pal, you can stop after we get through the tour. It’s my job to—”

“ _300 creds_ for a _litre_ of portal fluid,” Rick emphasizes for him.

Tour-guide raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s the usual price, yeah. It used to be 200, but the Council’s been taxing the hell out of adventure supplies. Lot of locals support the decision to focus on—"

“ _Two hundred—”_ Rick has been in space for one year. A solid quarter of that was dedicated to keeping his portal fluid stocked. He’s risked his neck hundreds of times, invested entire months in collecting the rare ingredients himself over buying them, because if he did, it would cost _20000 credits_.

Grabbing him by the shoulders, Tour-guide pushes him forward and snorts as his head turns to keep staring at the store. “Listen, I-I-I’ll, I’ll take you back here instead of to our souvenir store, how ‘bout that. Y-You can even get a Sheik rewards card, I’m sure that’ll just tickle your pickle. But for _god’s sake_ let’s get a move on.”

“Is he fucking homeless?” Rick asks with wonder.

Tour-guide pats him sympathetically on the shoulder before leading ahead. “Trust me, he’s not selling cheap. Portal fluid may be a pain in the ass to make, but with factory production,” His shoulders shrug, “He’s probably charging fifty times the cost to make it.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this sooner?” Rick asks, speeding up to walk beside him.

“Because of _this_. God, you’re embarrassing.” Tour-guide glances at him. “Piece of advice, don’t act impressed by anything. I-It makes you look like a Morty.”

When Rick stares forward, no snappy comeback in sight, Tour-guide looks at him with the first shred of care he’s ever seen on the Rick’s face.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Rick turns to him with alarm. “No!”

If anything, Tour-guide looks even more confused. “Then where is he?”

Shrugging with tight shoulders, Rick answers, “Don’t know.”

“He got kidnapped?”

“What— _no_ , he just—Morty’s on earth,” Rick clarifies, the name causing his tongue to feel numb. “ _Alive_ ,” he reiterates.

Tour-guide blinks, as if he’d just said Morty had turned into a fishbowl. “You _normied_ him?”

Rick blinks back at him. “What?”

“ _Normied_. Like, normal. Your Morty is having a _normal life._ ”

“Well, yeah,” He confirms, straightening up when Tour-guide keeps staring at him. In the back of his mind, he realizes they’ve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, but he thinks the other Rick might need a bit.

“Is he your brother?”

“We’re not—he’s my _boyfriend_.”

“Oh,” Tour-guide says again, as if he didn’t quite believe him. “And you’re not related?”

“Why would we be—”

Wait a minute.

He looks around at the pairs of Ricks and Mortys surrounding them. Standing a little too closely, just enough to feel each other’s presence without warranting a second glance. Rick knows the trick—he used to do it all the time with Morty in the school hallways.

A sick feeling arises in his gut, churning in his stomach. Grandfather and grandson.

“Pal, whatever you’re about to say—” Tour-guide shakes his head. “Trust me, we’ve already told ourselves the same things.”

“You too?” Rick asks, and he can’t tell if the question sounds neutral or numb. It’s not the incest that bothers him, surprisingly. It’s everything else. The smiles, the stealthy brush of hands, the little glances stolen in between moments.

Tour-guide shrugs. “All of us.”

As Tour-guide falls back into his routine, droning on about everything from the symbolism of the Citadel flag to the date of the first Citadel wafer cookie, Rick bites back a bitter laugh, watching grandfather and grandson share ice creams and walk side-by-side as if their hearts were beating in tune.

Somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, of all the pedophilic, incestuous relationships of the Citadel, Rick is the one who has to lie and say Morty is his boyfriend, when in reality, Morty’s been his ex for more than a year.

~

“Hey, we’re not done yet.”

Rolling his eyes, Rick gestures around them with one hand. “I’m not stupid. This is where we started.”

“You’re a flagged Rick. I have to take you down to the centre.”

Following him down the familiar street, Ricks sighs. “You told me that was only for problem Ricks. I haven’t done shit.”

“You don’t have a Morty,” Tour-guide answers, and Rick groans. “It’s protocol, sorry.”

As they approach the overtly cheery design of the Rick Support Centre, Rick cringes at the bright coloured booklets along the numerous brochure stands, with titles varying from “ _Rick Arena 2018_ ” to “ _So your Morty died. What now?”._

Rick prepares to follow him through the sliding doors, but instead Tour-guide plucks out a pamphlet from the long array of shelves and holds it out expectantly.

“You fucking liar,” Rick says, eyes scanning the cover. “ _No Morty? No problem.”_ His hands stay defiantly in his lab coat’s pockets.

Sighing, Tour-guide shoves the paper roughly into his lab coat’s breast pocket. Rick grits his teeth, feeling _the photo_ get scrunched up in response where it lay hidden inside. “Listen, your Morty’s not technically gone, so Centre support isn’t mandatory—"

“I don’t _need_ any support,” Rick growls.

“—But I’ve seen a lot of Mortyless Ricks in the past, and that shit’s rough. No one’s judging. They _pretend_ to, ‘cause that’s what Ricks do, but,” he pats him on the shoulder, even as Rick bristles in response, “Keep it in mind, yeah?”

“ _Take it off,_ ” Rick growls, holding out his chained wrist. Tour-guide complies with a sigh, and when the cuff snaps free, Rick is already turning to leave.

He’s two blocks from the Rick Stop when he hears the persistent voice calling his name—but in a city full of his look-alikes, he doesn’t acknowledge its painful resemblance until a hand reaches for his arm.

“Rick L-938?”

“Yeah.” Rick shrugs off his touch, freezing when the Morty tries to follow beside him. He frowns at the lanyard dangling around the Morty’s neck, tinkling with small bells. Tour-guide’s Morty. “Your boyfriend’s not here, sorry.”

“He asked me to come talk to you. And—” The Morty looks down at his hands, twisting his fingers. “Y-Y-You—you don’t need to call him that.”

He takes in the freckled checks and curly hair, priding himself on the clinical distance he manages. “Are you together?”

The Morty shuffles. “Aw, jeez, that’s a loaded question—"

“Leave him,” Rick tells him. “Get out before you’ve got nothing left.”

There’s blinking, and fumbling—the Morty gapes at him before stuttering out, “How, how can y-you say—”

“He’s a selfish motherfucker and you’re too dick-happy to realize he’s not worth it,” Rick spits out. “So I’m telling you now—get out. Don’t put up with his shit and just _leave._ ”

He supposes it can’t be considered self-hatred if they’re technically not the same body.

“W-What—” The Morty blinks at him one last time before his brows furrow and his face hardens. “You—I didn’t _ask_ for your relationship advice, _asshole._ ”

When Rick turns to leave half-way through his response, the Morty stumbles past him to block his path. He must be trying to look authoritative, but when his head barely passes Rick’s chin, the effect is ruined.

A finger pokes him in the chest. “Listen up—just because you have some stupid crap with your Morty, doesn’t mean we’re all fucked up—”

“He’s your _grandfather_ ,” Rick points out. It’s one hell of an argument.

“He loves me,” The Morty says with complete conviction.

Rick doesn’t conceal his chuckle. “Oh really—what gave you that impression? Did he pat you on the head? Help you with your homework?”

He glares, stance not giving up an inch. “He told me.”

“He—” Rick scoffs. “He never—he wouldn’t say that. Especially not to a _Morty_.”

“He did,” the Morty promises, undeterred by his goads. “And—and, maybe you’d believe it, if you’d managed to say it to yours.”

His entire body tenses, his fists clenching at his side. The Morty must see the step he’s taken too far, because now he takes two steps back, wary.

“You don’t know a fucking thing,” Rick growls. “Maybe, maybe I-I-I never said it, but I never needed to—he, he knew—”

“Yeah, yeah pal. Hey Morty.”

“Rick—” A portal blossoms under the Morty’s feet, and he drops into the green vortex.

Tour-guide pockets his portal gun once more and gives him an unimpressed glare. “Happy now?”

“Fucking _ecstatic_ ,” Rick confirms, crossing his arms to mirror Tour-guide’s stance.

The Rick sighs, as if breathing out the last of his patience. “I really was a shitty kid, huh?”

“That’s incorrectly implying you’re not shitty anymore.”

Tour-guide smiles without humour. “Good luck pal.”

It’s when he brushes past Rick that he leans in and whispers darkly, “And never pull that shit again.”

Rick returns his glare. “He deserves better.”

Tour-guide’s eyes become softer. “I know he does.”

He disappears into the crowd. Rick continues on his way, his only company being that ache in his chest, growing stronger with every lonely step.

~

_“Rick,” He whispered out, “I love you.”_

_He didn’t say it in a moment of passion, when they were locked together in a heated embrace. He never whispered it along sated skin, or sent a letter tied up with a rose._

_Of all the wild fantasies of his mind could conjure, his dreams never quite managed to re-create that moment. At least, not without re-writing it into something less remorseful._

_It was quiet. It was soft. If Rick had so much as breathed deeper, he would have missed it. (He wishes he had. He wishes he’d never noticed it at all, and never done what came afterwards.)_

_Morty told him those words on a cold night in January. He’d snuck through Morty’s bedroom window, and they cuddled up under the blankets and covered each other’s toes. Morty put on a movie on his laptop. Rick brought a bag of chips that crinkled too loudly for conversation, and that was okay, because they didn’t feel like talking much._

_And when Rick was too tired to get up, Morty just laughed and turned off the lights. He rested his head on Rick’s chest, and it was dark, and soft, and just when Rick was drifting off to sleep, Morty whispered those words. Morty said he loved him._

_Rick remembers his fingers releasing their gentle cling on Morty’s skin. His lips rested on Morty’s pulse. He felt it beat under his touch, and wondered when that sound became so sickeningly familiar._

_Morty must have felt something was off, because he looked up questioningly._

_“I should go,” Rick said, pulling away. Those words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating him._

_Morty’s hands chased after him as he slipped out from under the sheets, pausing when Rick recoils slightly. “Rick?”_

_“Listen,” Rick said, refusing to meet his stricken eyes. “You know I—I don’t do… that.”_

_Morty had blinked at him, uncomprehending. “I—but I thought…” Morty started. Rick saw when it finally started to sink in, and didn’t plan on sticking around for the rest of it—_

_(He should have, he should have stayed, gathered Morty in his arms, peppered kisses along the freckles he never bothered to memorize but he didn’t—and now when Rick tries to remember the constellations that dotted Morty’s back, all that comes to mind is blurred, dusted skin.)_

_He hastily gathered his things, shrugging on rumpled clothes and snatching up his shoes from the corner._

_Walking over to the windowsill, sliding up the glass and slipping through—it was a familiar routine that was suddenly nauseating in its intimacy. Sometimes he remembers the night so vividly, he can still feel the cool metal of Morty’s windowsill as it sliced into his hand, like the memories of a phantom limb._

_“Rick, I didn’t—just stay, I-I-I just—Rick_ wait _.”_

_He landed on the edge of the roof and turned to look back inside. Morty stood, leaning out against the windowsill, eyes pleading._

_“Are we…” Morty swallowed._

_Rick knew what he was asking. The question hung in the air, brighter than the moon as it loomed over them._

_He turned to look over the edge instead, jumped down. His ankles had rung in pain, but he didn’t pause, just went in the direction of his apartment without a glance back. “See you at school.”_

_“Wait—Rick, I-I don’t understand—”_

_He kept walking. He never looked back, and Rick doesn’t regret it. He saved himself from one more memory of Morty’s broken eyes. He doesn’t regret it, but he wishes he’d never looked away in the first place._

_They didn’t talk about it the next day. Morty cornered him at his locker, prattling on about his classes and before Rick knew it, they were walking in sync, halfway up the stairs. They had lunch on the rooftop and Morty beamed around at the perfect weather as if the temperate winds could be flattered._

_Above them, the invisible question lurked high in the morning sky, like a hidden moon approaching an eclipse._

_He didn’t realize at the time, but that moment was one of many crossroads in their relationship. Choosing between Morty, and the other path—he calls it that, because even now, he doesn’t know where it lead him. He just knows he shouldn’t have taken it._

_Left or right. Divide after divide. Choices and more choices._

_Morty going one way and Rick choosing the other—until he was lost in a maze, and Morty was gone._


End file.
